


rumour has it

by mzanthropist



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Actors, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Co-workers, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Social Media
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-22
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-05-15 10:43:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5783287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mzanthropist/pseuds/mzanthropist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy Blake and Clarke Griffin are sleeping together. Or so say the tabloids.</p>
<p>(aka CO-STARS AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	rumour has it

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when you binge the entire series over the holidays in preparation for season 3.

**_Entertainment Weekly_ **

**ARK Debuts First Full-Length Trailer for Freshman Series _The Hundred  
_** Posted August 31, 2015 – 6:30 PM EST

Ahead of its September 24 premiere, the premium cable network released the first full-length trailer for _The Hundred_ earlier today.

Brought to you by Camp Jaha Productions, _The Hundred_ takes place in a not-so-distant future (2054!) where climate apocalypse is no longer just a contentious debate topic amongst presidential hopefuls – it’s a reality that mankind must live and breathe. When a storm system develops unexpectedly over the North Atlantic, sending a transatlantic flight plummeting to the ground, one hundred of its surviving passengers find themselves stranded on a now-derelict Iceland, isolated from the rest of civilization. As the storm – aptly dubbed the Storm of Reckoning – slowly but steadily transforms the planet into a live-action _Frozen_ set, blanketing all seven continents in snow and plunging temperatures to as low as -98 degrees Fahrenheit in some areas (I’ll leave all the science to the show and its writers), the hundred strangers must learn to survive on this new, uninhabitable (and unrecognizable) planet called Earth.

The ARK drama, marking Bellamy Blake’s first major foray into television and also starring newcomer Clarke Griffin, is the ultimate tale of man against nature. (Seriously, it makes _The Day After Tomorrow_ look like child’s play in comparison.) Check out the trailer below – it might be the most _chilling_ (sorry, I just couldn’t help myself) thing you watch all day – and be sure to tune in or set your DVRs when the series bows on Thursday, Sept 24 at 10/9c.

 

\--

 

**_TMZ_ ** _@TMZ. 22 Oct 2015  
_ _‘Hundred’ actor Bellamy Blake throws a fit (and a glass) at The Ivy. (VIDEO) tmz.me/jaf879DD_

 

Clarke blinks dumbly at the iPad thrust in front of her face, the grainy footage of her co-star in the throes of an expletive-heavy tantrum – and bearing an uncanny resemblance to a bear who’s had its hibernation interrupted – playing on an endless loop.

 

“Um,” she cranes her neck to meet Jaha’s impassive gaze, flinching at the sound of glass shattering, the belligerent shouts increasing in volume and intensity. The shoddy speakers were due to give out any minute now. “That’s… rather unfortunate.”

 

Lowering the iPad (and allowing Clarke to uncross her eyes), the always-inscrutable executive producer quirks a brow. “Indeed.”

 

Anya, ARK’s head of public relations, scoffs from the window. “I think we’ve surpassed ‘unfortunate’ at this point,” she says humourlessly, arms folding across her chest. Every inch of her being – from her flyaway-free chignon to her pump-clad feet – seems to vibrate with irritation. “In fact, as of last week – sometime between exchanging profanities with a paparazzo and the painful thirteen minutes he has the balls to call an interview – I’d say we’ve been treading on ‘irredeemably recalcitrant and unforgivably contemptible’ territory where Bellamy Blake is concerned.”

 

A grim silence falls over the room. No one could disagree with that assessment. Although Clarke would’ve made the minor (tiny, really) amendment that he’s _always_ been an odious, intractable jackass. Not that her opinion really counts for much around here.

 

Anya sighs, shaking her head. “Honestly, Jaha, this little scheme we’re about to implement? I’m beginning to think – especially in light of last night’s hissy fit – that it might be too little, too late.” She seems to deflate, resignation supplanting indignation. “And this is coming from someone who rarely takes a shit on her own machinations, no matter how hare-brained they may be.”

 

_Wait —_ “What ‘scheme’?” Clarke blurts out, eyes narrowing and hackles rising.

 

If either Jaha or Anya detects an edge to her voice, they don’t comment.

 

Jaha sets down the iPad and reclines into his ergonomic chair, chin alighting on steepled fingers. “We have reason to believe that Bellamy’s antics are hurting the show’s viewership. Ratings have declined since the premiere – from 4.4 million to last week’s 2.5, if you were interested in the specifics – which is a rather steep and alarming drop given that we’re only four episodes out. And while it could be sheer happenstance – though I highly doubt that’s the case – each drop coincides with an outburst or scene attributed to Bellamy.”

 

He pauses (dramatically) to allow the words to sink in. Clarke stops breathing. Low ratings were the kiss of death in television, the one thing that was guaranteed to permanently shut down production, and the only explanation you’re given before you find yourself clearing out your trailer and back at that waitressing gig you thought you’d left for good. _Oh God_ , she thinks, worrying her bottom lip, _was the show getting cancelled?_ _Was that what this meeting was about?_ She thinks back to the correspondence between herself and her manager from the last two weeks, mentally combing through every email and conversation in search of the sentence, word, _anything_ that should’ve alerted her to this eventuality. Nothing comes to mind, unless the Post-It accompanying a script for a period piece he’d couriered over the other day ( _You’d be a perfect Eliza. Give it a read and tell me what you think._ ) contained a subtext she’d failed to glean (i.e., _Time’s running out on your present gig, so make this ‘Eliza’ your bitch._ ).

 

Or maybe, Clarke’s heart sinks even further at where her thought leads, he was going to break the news at their dinner tonight. Because surely news that you were being sacked from a real, decently paying acting job should be delivered with a side of good food and (lots of) even better wine. ~~~~

 

“But isn’t all publicity good publicity?” Her voice is croaky with anxiety that she tries (and clearly fails) to keep at bay. Jaha and Anya’s matching grim expressions don’t help.

 

“To an extent,” Anya agrees. “But there comes a point where that bad publicity goes from being ‘harmless’ to ‘toxic waste that I wouldn’t touch for all the money in the world, even under three layers of HAZMAT protection’. And right now, Bellamy’s on the verge of crossing that threshold—” her lips purse unhappily “—and bringing the rest of us down with him in his flaming shitstorm.”

 

Clarke slumps into her seat, heart calling it quits and nosediving to the pit of her stomach. Her first real go at this acting thing, and she was getting screwed over by an asshole with the temperament of an eight-year-old? _Fan-fucking-tastic._

 

“Thankfully,” Jaha takes over again, the paragon of calm and composure despite the potential disaster that looms over his head, “Anya and her team have devised a plan – a Hail Mary of sorts, if you will.”

 

“And I’m guessing I’m somehow involved,” Clarke fill in the blanks wearily.

 

“Yes,” Jaha confirms.

 

Clarke bites back a frustrated growl. She wishes they’d stop beating around the bush and _just tell her already_. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think this is the part where you get around to filling me in on the details of what it is exactly that you expect me to do. Or is this thing – whatever it is – shrouded in, like, _Mission Impossible_ levels of secrecy and I should expect my instructions via an encrypted, self-destructing USB flash drive that’ll just magically appear with my morning coffee tomorrow?”

 

Amusement lifts a corner of Jaha’s mouth, resulting in a tiny half-smile that proves his face was capable of conveying emotion. “We don’t have the budget for something so elaborate and theatrical, I’m afraid.”

 

“Well, damn. You would’ve had me at exploding flash drive.”

 

Anya raises a brow. “Are you quite finished?”

 

“Only if you’re ready to tell me what the hell is going on,” Clarke retorts sweetly.

 

Jaha and Anya exchange a wordless look. When Jaha’s chin dips in a small nod, Anya turns to Clarke, impatiently batting away a curl that had fallen into her face.

 

“We need you to date Bellamy,” she announces bluntly and without preamble.

 

Clarke’s jaw drops. “I’m sorry, but _what_?”

 

“We need some good publicity for Bellamy,” Anya says by way of explanation, gliding over from her station by the window to half-perch-half-lean on the edge of Jaha’s mahogany desk. “And you, Clarke, are a publicist’s wet dream. Basically a nonentity in the eyes of the paparazzi —” Clarke bristles slightly at this “—but beloved by Joe and Jane Averages everywhere with your wholesome, toothpaste commercial good looks, and affable yet humble rapport with the press. Not to mention how gracious and generous you are with your fans.”

 

“That may be, but you’ve got no way of knowing for certain that whatever goodwill I may have with the public will rub off on Bellamy. Maybe I haven’t got enough for the both of us, or he’s coated in too much of his own crap for it to do any good,” Clarke protests, mind working furiously to find a way out of this steaming pile of _shit_ she’d inadvertently stepped into simply by – of all things – _being nice_. Good God, who gets punished for being a decent human being?

 

Jaha’s half-smile grows into an almost-smile. “Ah, but we do.”

 

At Clarke’s bemused expression, Anya explains. “Remember the _Hamilton_ after party the two of you attended together? About a month ago in New York?”

 

She did, but – “We weren’t there ‘together’,” she grumbles petulantly.

 

Anya dismisses the interjection with a careless flick of her wrist. “Well, the only genuine – and benevolent – buzz of excitement Bellamy managed to drum up in the last two months was when _US Weekly_ printed photos of the two of you leaving the party together.”

 

“Again, _not toge_ —”

 

“Hollywood’s asshole extraordinaire,” Anya continues smoothly, as if she hadn’t been interrupted, “and television’s newest golden girl. The gossip columns were having a field day, ‘Bellarke’ was trending on Twitter for five days straight—” Clarke splutters – this nonexistent relationship had already generated a portmanteau? “—and the show’s ratings experienced a sharp increase that week. From what I’ve gathered, audiences were desperate to see this torrid real-life romance play out on screen. Apparently, the age-old trope of the Bad Boy being redeemed and reformed by the love of a Good Girl is something the public can’t get enough of.” Anya pauses to fix Clarke with a scornful look that bordered on accusatory. “Unfortunately, nothing came of it.”

 

Clarke feels heat creep into her cheeks. “Because there was nothing there!”

 

Anya gives a languid shrug. “All I’m saying is that if you and Bellamy were seen out together for a while, and the public believed you were a couple…” She trails off, looking at Clarke expectantly.

 

Clarke’s hands curl into fists in her lap. “You can’t seriously be suggesting that I conduct some faux-mance in the tabloids with Bellamy Blake of all people just so that a few more eyeballs tune in to ARK on Thursday nights.”

 

Anya flashes her a sharp, almost shark-like smile. “Au contraire. That’s _exactly_ what we’re suggesting.”

 

\--

 

“ _This is Bellamy Blake. Leave me a message and I’ll call you back._ ”

 

BEEP!

 

“Seriously, Bell? You’re just going to ignore my texts, emails AND calls? Well, I’ve got news for you: you can’t ignore me forever. I may literally be your sister from another mister (I’ve always wanted to say that, but now that I have, I kind of regret it…), but we _both_ inherited mom’s stubborn streak. So dig in your heels and refuse to budge on this fake relationship thing all you want because I’m just as prepared to badger and nag until you at least hear what Lincoln has to say. Who, by the way, you pay a seriously obscene amount of money to _give you advice where your career is concerned_. So it might not be such a terrible idea to – I don’t know – _listen to him_ every once in a while. Or at least make him actually work for his 10%.”

 

[Sigh.]

 

“Look, I get that publicity stunts and public relations mind games aren’t your thing. And really, are they anyone’s? But it’s all kind of a package deal, isn’t it? I mean I’m not a PR expert by any means, but any moron with half a brain knows that publicity is part and parcel of a successful acting career. And yes, this hypothetical half-brained moron is you. In fact, I’ve a feeling that there’s some part of you – however small that might be – that knows Lincoln, Anya and Jaha are all on to something with this whole ‘co-stars boning off-camera’ thing they’ve cooked up. Because as absurd as it may seem on paper, it’s not _entirely_ crazy. Maybe just crazy enough that it’s actually almost brilliant.

 

“And surely you can knock two brain cells together to wrap your head around the logic and rationale behind it, why it’s even been put on the table. I mean – and this is me being totally straight with you, no sugarcoating – you haven’t exactly been doing yourself any favours the last couple of months. Have you Googled yourself lately? I have and latest news they have on you consists of one glass-smashing incident, an altercation with a former co-star, and a video of you walking out on an _Entertainment Tonight_ interview – and nearly reducing a baby-faced correspondent to tears – because you were asked an admittedly dumb but completely innocuous question about your ‘secret to maintaining such hardcore abs’. And those are just the top three. I’m not judging – I’m your sister, not your mother, and I don’t need to hear the justifications for every bad decision you make – but it’s like you’re deliberately antagonizing the public, like you get off on people hating you. And that really sucks for me, Bell, because _I know_ you’re a good person, kind and caring in your own way.”

 

[Papers shuffling.]

 

“Okay, well, Psych 100’s about to start, so I better go. Just do yourself a favour and think about everything I’ve just said, okay? And call me back ASAP. Love you. Bye.”

 

\--

 

“ _This is Bellamy Blake. Leave me a message and I’ll call you back._ ”

 

BEEP!

 

“What part of ‘call me back ASAP’ did you not understand? I know you’re not shooting today so you have absolutely no excuse for not returning calls in a timely manner. Come to think of it, you also have no excuse for not picking up in the first place. Call. Me. Back.”

 

\--

 

“ _This is Bellamy Blake. Leave me a message and I’ll call you back._ ”

 

BEEP!

 

“ ** _The mailbox is full and cannot accept messages at this time. Goodbye._** ”

 

“Son of a—”

 

\--

 

**iMessage**  
To: Bell  
From: O  
2015-10-23, 2:09 PM

Bellamy, you hoarder, delete your goddamn voicemails!

 

\--

 

To: lincolnwhittle@grounderstalent.com  
From: bellamyblake@gmail.com  
Date: October 23, 2015  
Subject: (No Subject)

Fine. I’ll do it.

 

\--

 

**Clarke Griffin on _The Hundred_ , her _Real Housewives_ addiction and the joys of dumpster diving  
**By: Natasha Harris @NatHarris            Oct 27, 2015 . 12:00 AM

Off-Broadway regulars and fans of extremely obscure indie films (I may be one of seven people who saw _After We Go_ ) are already familiar with Clarke Griffin, the unassuming but magnetic Los Angeles-born, Chicago-raised, NYC-trained actress. The rest of the industry, however, appears to be playing catch up. After paying her dues in the often-exhausting New York theatre scene as well as in thankless blink-and-you-miss-it one-off parts on a whole slew of shows (among them _The Good Wife_ and _Suits_ ), Griffin seems to have hit her stride in 2015. After demonstrating her range (and proving herself to be one of the most talented and versatile young actors working today) through memorable (and recurring!) turns in _Broad City_ and _House of Cards_ earlier in the year, she now brings her A-game week after week as one of the leads in the critically acclaimed _The Hundred_. The 24-year-old sat down with _The A.V. Club_ to discuss – amongst other things – dumpster diving, why she thinks she may have been adopted, and how a fortuitous game of Truth or Dare brought acting into her life.

 

[…]

 

**AVC: You have a BFA from NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts and started your career in theatre, spending the bulk of the first couple years post-Tisch starring in several Off-Broadway productions, before moving onto small roles in indies and guest stints on television. And now, you star in a critically acclaimed television show. With such a performance-oriented resume and a diverse body of work to your name, on paper and to any outside observer, it seems like you spent your whole adult life – and maybe a significant portion of your adolescence – working towards a career in show business. But, as I understand it and as impossible as it is for me to imagine, you weren’t always interested in acting, were you?**

**CG:** [Laughing.] No, not always. I actually had zero interest in it until my sophomore year of high school. But you’re right – based on my resume alone, there’s every reason to assume that I was an obnoxious drama kid with lofty aspirations of dethroning Meryl Streep and taking the acting world by storm.

 

**AVC:** **Why the initial lack of interest?**

**CG:** Growing up, I’d had another creative outlet: the visual arts. I grew up drawing, painting and sculpting, and that was my first love, my first passion, really. [Laughs.] My predilection for the arts – both visual and performing – has always been a bit of a mystery to friends and family.

 

**AVC: Why’s that?**

**CG:** I’m the creative, artsy child of two pretty hardcore scientists [Griffin’s mother is a neurosurgeon while her late-father was an environmental engineer]. If it’s not mysterious, it’s suspicious. [Laughs.] For a few months back when I was nine years old, I was convinced that I’d been adopted, that the people I was living with and who claimed to be my mother and father couldn’t have been my biological parents. I may or may not have even demanded a DNA test…

 

**AVC: I’m assuming the tests came back positive?**  

**CG:** [Nodding.] A near perfect match to both of them. I am, without a doubt, my parents’ daughter.

 

**AVC:** **So in terms of your transition from the visual arts to the performing arts, the question – trite and banal as it is – begs to be asked: How did that come about? What eventually drew your interest away from expression through paint and canvas to expression through face and body?**

**CG:** My interest in acting definitely developed later on, but I wouldn’t say I was ‘drawn away’ from the visual arts necessarily. I’ve always been an artist and doubt I’ll ever stop. I mean, I still go dumpster diving from time to time—

 

**AVC: Hold on; did you say _dumpster diving_?**

**CG:** [Laughing.] You don’t need to look and sound so scandalized!

 

**AVC: [Recovering.] Sorry, but you pulled dumpster diving out of left field.**

**CG:** [Laughing.] I go dumpster diving for inspiration, to get my creative juices flowing. Because sometimes, amidst all the junk and debris, there’s that one really fascinating piece that I know I can work with and create something from. A friend from high school, Raven, got me into it. She was always scrounging for spare parts for whatever car she was fixing up at the time or some other project that involved a lot of soldering and welding. I tagged along to keep her company, but would always end up finding something of my own to play with. [Laughs.] I don’t know if we looked less or more crazy rummaging through garbage as a duo. [Sobering.] Anyway, to answer your question – sorry about my meandering answers – I pretty much owe my entire acting career to Jasper Jordan and a game of Truth or Dare.

 

**AVC: Oh?**

**CG:** [Nodding.] Jasper dared me to audition for the school play – Mount Weather High has a long (and continuing, from what I’ve heard) history of staging appallingly bad productions – our sophomore year. The play was – to absolutely no one’s surprise – a complete disaster, but the adrenaline rush, the high that came with performing – it was unlike anything I’d ever experienced before. It was thrilling and addicting, and I think I’ve been chasing that high ever since.

 

-

 

Okay, truth time. That story about how she got into acting? Only half true. It’s true that her first passion was the visual arts, that she’d been dared to – and did – audition for the school play her sophomore year, and that it had been that experience that simultaneously fomented and cemented the desire to pursue acting professionally, to study the craft, hone it and make a living from it if she could.

 

The ‘half’ component lies in that the school play wasn’t her first encounter with thespianism, of pretending to be something she’s not. Acting finds her (not the other way around) long before she lands the role of Helena in a patched-together and slipshod production of _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ – it’s an unconventional introduction made under the worst circumstances imaginable. Because at the age of eleven, Clarke had mastered the art of plastering on a convincing smile (contained but with just enough teeth), of putting on a routine so real, so genuine that everyone from strangers to therapists to her own mother believed that she was handling her father’s death (a senseless act of violence that found him in the wrong place at the wrong time) better than she actually was. That she’d felt (still _feels_ ) winded – like an industrial vacuum is sucking the air out of her lungs – whenever he’s brought up in conversation is a secret she’s never shared with anybody.

 

And, of course, there’s even a script, one she doesn’t have to deviate much from because, well, there was only so much you could say when discussing a dead parent, only so much people actually want to know or hear. Which was just as well because saying any more than was strictly necessary for the sake of politeness would open the floodgates of emotion that Clarke fears she won’t be able to close back up.

 

But the story of a girl who’d discovered a knack for hiding her grief and decided to funnel that talent towards a career in show business, Clarke figures, isn’t the story that people want to hear. (It’s too dark, too _sad_.) Even if it is the truth.

 

\--

 

**_JustJared.com_ ** _@JustJared. 31 Oct 2015  
_ _New couple alert? Co-stars Bellamy Blake and Clarke Griffin (#Bellarke) get cozy at @UNICEF Masquerade Ball. See the photos: jus.tj/yi1_

 

Clarke isn’t – never has been – interested in fame or celebrity. Sure, it’s nice to be approached by people who are genuine fans of her work (what actor doesn’t derive a little gratification from having their work recognized and vindicated?), but the idea of being a tabloid fixture is about as appealing as eating boiled potatoes for the rest of her life. (She likes her potatoes shoestring-thin and deep-fried, thank you very much.) If all she’d wanted was a little notoriety and name-recognition, why put herself through the trouble and rigours of a grueling four-year theatre program?

 

Which is why she’s quite content with the modicum of fame she’s garnered through ‘The Hundred’. She’s a small-time television actor who’s just received (second-to-)top billing for the very first time, so as long as she keeps her head down and doesn’t stir up any major controversy, the tabloids are more than happy to let her quietly go about her life. (Though that may change once word got out that she was ‘dating’ Bellamy Blake…) And while she’s happy to learn that it’s in fact possible to avoid the limelight and still do what she loved, Clarke is cognizant of – and has reluctantly reconciled herself to – the fact that public relations and publicity were the name of the Hollywood game. Not only were press interviews and publicity events essential and inescapable corollaries of her job (the publicity and promotional activities provision in her contract is frighteningly ironclad), they’re also necessary evils that must be observed if she wants to advance her career (she’s never been accused of complacency and it wasn’t about to start now), to raise her profile high enough that hers is one of top however-many names in contention for those parts that she so desperately wants and in which she knows she can deliver.

 

Television appearances, Clarke finds, are easier than red carpets. She’s comfortable in front of a studio audience (all that theatre training kicking in), genuinely enjoys making Ellen chuckle (she’s like the fun, non-judgy aunt Clarke never had growing up), and considers her triumphant lip-sync of ‘Hotline Bling’ on _The Tonight Show_ just another performance. But all of that ease and familiarity and _fun_ is markedly absent at red carpet events. Instead, there’s noise, chaos and – to her chagrin – a fair bit of peacocking as she’s shepherded down the press line, the paparazzi clamoring for attention and bulbs flashing from every which direction. Red carpets are disorienting and stressful with the potential to become mortifying if you didn’t watch your step (especially in four-inch stilettos) or forgot to triple-check that your dress wouldn’t turn into a flimsy strip of gauze at the hand of flash photography. ~~~~

 

If it were up to her (she’s repeatedly been told that it’s not) and these functions weren’t so salubrious to her career (she refuses to plateau so early on), Clarke would skip out on red carpet appearances altogether. But since none of that was actually the case, she dutifully attends each one as they magically appear on her itinerary.

 

And tonight’s event, UNICEF’s third annual Masquerade Ball, was no exception. Under normal circumstances, Clarke would’ve had fewer qualms about attending, because: a) UNICEF was the beneficiary (every Halloween from the age of five to fourteen, she’d made it her personal mission to bleed her neighbours dry of their loose change in order to fill to the brim no less than three of those orange cardboard collection boxes), and b) she’d heard that Ewan McGregor would be there.

 

But the prospect of fun and possibly even enjoying herself evaporated the moment Anya had informed her that she and Bellamy would be attending together. And not just happening to be caught in the same frame while arriving and/or leaving the event, be it by divine intervention or strategic interference (not that there’s much of a distinction – Clarke has come to learn that whatever Anya wills will simply _be_ ), but _together_ together. As in arrive, pose for photos, mingle, pose for more photos, and leave together, all the while staying within five feet of each other at all times.

 

So here she was, posing rigidly beside a bored but present Bellamy (it’s no secret that he abhors these black-tie events, possibly more than she does, but even he has enough sense to know that it’s in poor form to skip out on UNICEF), lamenting the full DVR she’d had to leave for another night and dreading the hours that lay ahead. Meanwhile, Anya looks on from the sidelines, staring daggers at the arm-length chasm that separates Bellamy’s hip from Clarke’s waist. If she hadn’t had a façade of cool stoicism to maintain, Clarke’s positive that the ARK’s head publicist would’ve been in full stage mother-mode at her station behind the pen, fervidly coaching her disgracefully inept protégés through the intricacies of staged courtship from the shadows.

 

Clarke sighs around her smile, wondering for the umpteenth time why she had agreed to this.

 

“Not having fun, Princess?”

 

She startles, her smile faltering the slightest amount, as Bellamy’s smooth baritone pulls her out of her musings. She shoots him a baleful sideways glare, skin prickling with annoyance. He stares right back, regarding her with a vacant disinterest typically reserved for children’s plays or the discovery of a pebble in one’s shoe. Clarke’s not sure how long they stay like this (but it’s long enough for her smile to have grown cold and stale on her lips by the time it’s over), engaged in a deadlock, both their gazes steady and unblinking, neither willing to yield first. (Later, _Dlisted.com_ will proclaim it to be ‘eye sexing at its randiest’.)

 

Much to her chagrin, Clarke looks away first. Out of physiological necessity (glaring sideways for a protracted period really strains the old extraocular muscles), not in an admittance of defeat or acknowledgement of his staring prowess. He smirks as her eyes snap back to their default positions, his own eyes shining with a smug triumph that causes her irritation to grow three-fold. She’s not much of a pugilist, but she so badly wants – veritably _itches_ with the desire – to punch it off his face.

 

_For the children_ , Clarke intones to herself like a mantra instead, perhaps as a reminder that there were children in the world facing far worse ordeals than momentary blindness from camera flashes and pretending to date a man despised by most of the Western Hemisphere. When she’s confident that no vitriol will spew out of her the moment she unlocks her jaw and unseals her lips, she answers the question posed pre-stare off. “Enough to get by, I think. Thanks for asking,” she says primly.

 

Almost instantaneously, and barely giving Clarke a chance to revel in her maturity, Bellamy drawls, “Then you should probably unhitch your shoulders from your ears and do something about that smile – preferably return it to the wax figure you borrowed it from.”

 

_The children. Think of the children._

 

Determinedly popping her rapidly ballooning ire with a mental stiletto, Clarke amps up the wattage (and authenticity) of her smile, dropping her shoulders and relaxing the muscles that have bunched under Bellamy’s touch. Convincingly recreating unlikely scenarios to induce an illusion of verisimilitude was something she did on a daily basis; it should’ve been second nature to her by now. Lexa, Hollywood’s current It Girl and Clarke’s classmate from Tisch who also just happens to be Anya’s cousin and thereby privy to the details of this ridiculous farce, would probably disavow their friendship if this ruse were to go south. Or worse: launch into a full on critique, tearing apart and dissecting her “performance” (“We’re basically circus monkeys, Clarke, meant to be a constant source of entertainment. There isn’t a time when we’re _not_ performing.”) at their weekly powwow (aka Sunday brunch).

 

Also, she couldn’t give Bellamy the satisfaction of being their downfall. Especially not when there wasn’t anything to fall _from_ just yet.

 

The puff of a weary exhale ghosts Clarke’s hairline. Seconds later, suddenly and without any warning, Bellamy shuffles closer, the hand on her ribcage sliding down to palm the crest of her hip. She stiffens back up, turning to him in alarm. “What are you do—”

 

Bellamy shushes her. “Relax, I’m not trying to manhandle you.” The point of his chin tips imperceptibly toward the bedlam before them, at the fringe of which Anya is sweeping a pointed look between them and the caged photographers. “She’ll keep us here until we give her and paps a shot that’ll corroborate the story she’s already leaked to the press about our ‘hot and heavy undercover trysts’.”

 

Clarke blinks as she processes this. (She fights her natural inclination to frown because if she did, the tabloids might declare _Trouble in Paradise!_ before she even makes it home tonight, undoing all of Anya’s hard work.) Now that she thought about it, they had been standing there for a while now… (Also: Shit, Anya worked fast.) She snaps her gaze back to him and states, all business and matter-of-fact, “Then let’s get this over with.”

 

Bellamy peers down at her, a sardonic smile playing at his lips. “Didn’t figure you for the gutsy, take-charge type, Princess.”

 

Clarke rolls her eyes, rising onto her toes (he’s got at least half-a-foot on her despite the heels strapped to her feet). “You don’t know a lot of things about me.”

 

“I’ll bet.”

 

Steeling herself up, she closes the gap between their faces, planting a featherlight kiss on the corner of his mouth. It probably didn’t even qualify as a proper kiss, a polite peck exchanged between acquaintances at most maybe. Even so, the paparazzi lose it, the horde of them reaching a new level of mayhem as they scramble over each other, shutters snapping in dizzying succession.

 

When they pull apart, Bellamy’s palm and fingers still warm on the slope of her waist, they immediately look to Anya. She’s already sauntering towards them, the corners of her lips lifted the barest of amounts in what could be considered an honest-to-God smile, pleased in spite of herself. She begins to usher them toward the venue entrance. “I think you’ve spent enough time in front of the photo wall. Let’s get you two inside to mingle, shall we?”

 

“Oh, thank _God_ ,” Clarke mutters under her breath, allowing herself to be led away.

 

She’s so relieved (and eager) to finally escape the rabid photographers that it doesn’t register until much later that her hand had been ensconced in Bellamy’s the entire walk up to the doors.

 

\--

 

**_TVLine.com_ ** _@TVLine. 43m  
_ _‘Hundred’ EP Thelonious Jaha dishes on what’s coming up for the freshman show’s pivotal midseason episode. tvline.com/2015/11/23/hun…_

 

**_TVLine.com_ **

**_The Hundred_ EP Previews Jace vs. Dawson, Eve’s Dilemma  & More  
**By: Stan Weisberg / November 9 2015, 7:00 AM PST 

Six episodes down and another six to go before the first season (possibly series, if the critically acclaimed series isn’t picked up for a second season soon) of ‘The Hundred’ comes to a close, TVLine sat down with executive producer Thelonious Jaha for an exclusive on what’s in store for our favourite motley crew of castaways this coming Thursday.

Below, Jaha dishes on the fallout from Jace and Dawson’s explosive confrontation (let bygones be bygones, perhaps?), addresses Eve’s heartbreaking dilemma, and teases “a possible romantic entanglement” between two central characters.

 

**TVLINE| In last week’s episode, things got more than a little heated when de facto leaders Jace and Dawson finally duked it out in a long-overdue grudge match. What’s next for them in the aftermath, especially in light of the depth that their resentment for each other runs, and given how their fracas nearly cost the group their only shelter?**

Torching the cabins and almost burning them to the ground was a real wakeup call for these two characters, a real turning point. […][Laughs.] That’s my long-winded, expository way of saying that they come to a truce of sorts in this next episode. Which, I think, is to be expected given their predicament. They’re facing an enemy much greater than one another – the weather, the elements, the wild – and energy wasted on petty intra-group conflict that really is quite trivial in comparison serves, as we saw in the last episode, absolutely no one. Setting aside their differences and letting sleeping dogs lie makes the most sense, and is the best course of action moving forward. But that isn’t to say that the animosity has dissipated altogether. There will be underlying tension; their ill feelings for one another will continue to simmer away until some major catalyst comes along and turns the burner on high. They’re only human after all. So maybe this alliance will be short-lived. But like I said, there will definitely be peace brokered and maintained between the two of them for the foreseeable future.

 

**TVLINE| Eve’s flashbacks from episode 4 confirmed what many fans had been speculating since the pilot: that she’s pregnant. The preview for this week’s episode suggests that her secret may not stay under wraps for much longer. What does this mean for Eve and her unborn child?**

I think it goes without saying that this is clearly not the optimum time – some might even go so far as to say that it’s morally wrong, given the circumstances – to bring a child into the world, especially when that world seems hell-bent on wiping out the human civilization. Supplies are limited and dwindling; the harsh conditions will endanger the lives of both mother and child. […] But at the same time, this is her and her [late] husband’s miracle baby. […] Bearing all this in mind then, it should come as no surprise that Eve is as conflicted as she is, torn between keeping the baby and terminating the pregnancy while she still can. Up to this point, that struggle and indecision has been hers alone. But once the other survivors find out, the matter will become that of the collective. There will be a divide; there will be some who will want to make the decision for her, to force her hand. […]

 

**TVLINE| Many viewers have lamented that the show’s a bit lacking in the romance department. But I’ve heard from several little birdies that this will be corrected very soon. Truth or fiction?**

At its heart, the show is about survival and the endurance of human spirit; it explores the depths and bounds of humanity. […] Romance was never meant to be – and never will be – our focus. […] That being said, love is an inherent component of the very humanity that we strive to probe and test each episode. Romantic attachments and sexual impulses, it’s all a part of human nature, and we would be doing the show and its viewers a disservice if we failed to acknowledge that. So yes, we’ll tackle romance, love and sex in due time. But full disclosure: it won’t be some romanticized, daytime soap opera version – it’ll be raw and gritty, realistic and as true to how it might manifest in real-life between two people in a situation similar to that of our characters.

**TVLINE| I know you can’t give too much away, maybe wouldn’t even be able to since by the sound of things the romance arc is in its very early stages, but could the romance possibly be between Eliza and Noah, whose portrayers[, Clake Griffin and Bellamy Blake, respectively,] are rumoured to be romantically involved themselves?**

I don’t comment on the personal lives of our actors, nor am I influenced by the personal relationships that they may or may not be conducting between and amongst themselves during their off-hours. What I will say is that if there happens to be chemistry between two actors, one that’s palpable and really translates onscreen, then we’ll definitely – and fully – exploit it for storytelling purposes. Writers are a bit like vultures like that – we leave no bone left unpicked. [Laughs.]

 

-

 

“Am I alone in the opinion that the use of ellipses in this article is somewhat on the liberal side?”

 

Anya’s eyes stay glued to her phone, nimble thumbs efficiently tapping out an email. “You tend to get a little carried away and – how should I put it – pedantic once you get started on moral quandaries.”

 

Jaha considers this. “So yes, I’m alone?”

 

“Like Tom Hanks in _Cast Away_.” Hitting **SEND** , Anya looks up. “After he loses Wilson.”

 

“Huh.”

 

\--

 

**_POPSUGAR_ ** _@POPSUGAR. 11 Nov 2015  
#Bellarke step out together for a hike in Runyon Canyon: popsugar.com/celebrity/Bell…_

With their public debut as a couple out of the way (sans any major hiccups), the focus has turned to ensuring that the public continues to buy – and be fascinated with – their sham romance, that Clarke and Bellamy maintain the illusion of a couple completely and stupidly infatuated with one another. (Easier said than done.)

 

To facilitate this, Anya assembles and distributes (on Sunday evenings via email at six o’clock on the dot) weekly schedules which meticulously outline and detail both the public events and the private outings they are to attend together. It’s nothing more than an amalgamation of their separate calendars, but in Clarke’s opinion (which she’s quite certain is shared by Bellamy), it’s the schedule from hell. Because not only does she have to attend nearly twice as many red carpets (as it turns out, there isn’t much overlap in their publicity obligations) in addition to the minimum fifty hours a week they spend shooting the show, any and all free time she typically reserves for her friends (Wine & Cheese Thursdays and SoulCycle Saturdays) or herself (catching up on the contents of her DVR with her favourite takeout) is obliterated. When Anya had instructed them to “integrate and immerse” themselves “so completely and thoroughly” into each other’s lives that it was “impossible to know where one ended and the other began”, it hadn’t occurred to Clarke that doing just that would entail spending virtually every waking moment in each other’s presence, as if they had no lives outside of their ‘relationship’.

 

(“That’s _exactly_ the point,” Anya snaps when Clarke brings it up.)

 

So because of Anya’s decree, Clarke now finds herself (much to her horror and dismay – the last time her life was this micromanaged she’d been in grade school) grocery shopping and running errands with Bellamy in tow, frequenting restaurants and bars known to be surveilled by the paparazzi, and, most irritating of all, partaking in Bellamy’s workout regimen. This last bit entails:

  * rising at an ungodly hour (6 AM! – apparently even her circadian rhythm was up for grabs and violable) four times a week to meet Bellamy at a gym of his choosing where she then proceeds to
  * bob up and down halfheartedly (and half asleep) on the elliptical for an hour before retreating to the locker room for equally as long (she doesn’t care one iota that she keeps Bellamy twiddling his thumbs for the better part of an hour – because look, if she has to get up at the crack of dawn to keep up a charade meant to reform his public image, then he can very well give her an extra twenty minutes for a power nap in the sauna), and
  * choking down a truly heinous green juice that tastes like dirt and self-loathing (“Kale is blended into this? Why can’t I – oh, I don’t know – just _eat_ the damn thing?”).



Only one week in, and she’s the most exhausted she’s been her entire life (this was absolutely _not_ a hyperbole). And that was without factoring in the cherry on top: Sunday morning hikes in Runyon Canyon. Because that is apparently Bellamy’s idea of a relaxing Sunday.

 

“Just out of curiosity, is the concept of lazy Sunday totally lost on you?” Clarke asks, practically galloping to keep up with Bellamy’s brisk pace. “I mean, I’m no sloth and I enjoy the odd outdoor activity here and there, but what possesses you – or anybody, for that matter – to do this week after week?”

 

Bellamy merely gives her his trademark brow-lift, languid and almost (infuriatingly) regal, in answer. She feels her eyes roll in return. So irritatingly unforthcoming as always.

 

“Because all I see,” she pushes anyway, “is potential for severe dehydration and Lyme disease if you’re not careful.”

 

“Then I guess it’s a good thing I come prepared with water and doused head to toe in the modern marvel known as insect repellent.”

 

Clarke scowls. “Smartass,” she mutters under her breath.

 

She feels, rather than sees, Bellamy consider her from the corner of his eye. He slows his strides. “It’s something I used to do with my sister.” Her head jerks up in surprise. “Hiking,” he appends unnecessarily, staring straight ahead. “As a kid, Octavia was this restless, rambunctious ball of energy, constantly bouncing off the walls. So our mom would have me take her out, usually to the park a couple of blocks down, but really anywhere that got her out of our tiny apartment and let her wear herself out. On Sundays though, our mom would drive the three of us out to the nearest state park for a picnic and to walk the trails.” He pauses, looking as though he’s caught in some internal debate.

 

Clarke opens her mouth, fully prepared to give him an out, but shuts it with a _click_ when he continues. “Mom died when I was eighteen and Octavia was twelve. But we kept it up, the picnics and the hikes – it was like clockwork: the two of us, every Sunday, weather permitting.” He shrugs, throat working. “O’s off at college now and I’m here, but it’s something that sort of stuck after all this time.”

 

Clarke doesn’t know what to say. It’s strange – surreal, even – for her to know and acknowledge that she and Bellamy shared something in common, especially where that something was as specific and uncommon as a dead parent. The strangeness has nothing to do with her learning this information for the first time. Because she’s not. She’d read up on him after being cast on the show and his mother’s prolonged battle with ovarian cancer had become public knowledge by then. (Say what you will about TMZ, but no one could deny that they had a decent research team.) Rather, it’s hearing him say it out loud, the information passing directly from him to her, that changes the way she feels about this thing that they share. Especially since he doesn’t owe it to her to open himself up like this, to divulge these private and painful bits of his life like he actually trusts her, as though she were a confidante.

 

“I’m sorry about your mother,” Clarke says finally, wishing the words didn’t sound so _trite_ , so perfunctory and inadequate, despite the sincerity behind them. Because doesn’t the urge to bang her head against a wall hit her any and every time the very same hackneyed sentiment is directed towards her?

 

Bellamy stops walking. “Don’t be,” he says, uncapping his bottle of water and taking a long pull. He swipes his lips with the back of his hand. “It’s not as if you were somehow responsible.” He extends the bottle towards Clarke.

 

She takes it. “Okay.”

 

“Okay.” He steps off to the left to make way for a passing jogger who Clarke watches with horrified fascination – what sane person _jogs_ this mountain? “If we finish this trail in—” he confers with his watch “—the next half-hour, brunch at that diner across the street from your apartment is on me.”

 

Clarke doesn’t need to be propositioned twice. She’s already flying down the path, blond ponytail thumping against her back and nearly steamrolling a couple posing for a selfie, when she shouts over her shoulder, “Deal!” Rounding a corner, she adds, “Now, do us both a solid and hurry your slow ass up!”

 

\--

 

**_Camp Jaha Productions_ ** _@CampJaha. 30 Nov 2015  
_ _@TheHundred has been renewed for a second season! #TheHundred_

 

“I told you it would work, didn’t I?” Anya gloats, nails drumming a jaunty little medley on Clarke’s vanity.

 

Clarke’s barely hears her, unblinking eyes trained on the iPad screen, the words _renewed for a second season_ playing in a continuous loop in her head. By this point, they’re just a jumble of phonemes rendered meaningless by repetition, but the dizzying euphoria has yet to subside and she’ll be damned if the publicist’s need for validation sidelined her momentary bliss. Yes, Anya’s ego deserved to be stroked (her plan did work, after all), but that could wait. Because right now all Clarke wants to do is bask in the knowledge that she has a job – stable and with a _salary_ – locked down for at least another year, that she won’t have to scrabble (and suffer) through another pilot season chock-full of rejection and disappointment.

 

But through the haze of jubilation, a thought niggles at the back of her mind, demanding to be voiced. She lifts her eyes from the iPad and hands it back to Anya. “I guess this means you’ll be shutting down the little sideshow Bellamy and I have been putting on for the past month?” She feels a twinge of _something_ (sadness? disappointment? – maybe, but _why_?) as she says this. “I mean, it served its purpose, right? You got what you wanted?”

 

Anya makes a noncommittal noise, shaking her head distractedly as she scrolls through an email. “Not quite. Yes, ratings have seen a significant increase – or at least enough that ordering a second season didn’t feel like a complete gamble to the network – and public perception of Bellamy has gone from ‘jackass of the century’ to ‘tolerable asshole’ – a major improvement – but I think we can do better. We need to continue to grow and establish the fanbase, attract new viewers and retain old ones so that the show has an audience to return to after the hiatus. As for Bellamy, I’m aiming for a title that: 1) doesn’t include some derivative of ‘ass’, and 2) doesn’t inspire feelings of ‘just deserts’ in the ordinary person if he were to get his ass kicked.”

 

She crosses her ankles, tapping open another email. “Also, award season’s coming up. Both you and Bellamy, as well as the show, are likely contenders,” Clarke’s eyes round – _Wait, **what**?_ “which means absolutely no negative press for either of you for the foreseeable future. We can’t afford to have anything jeopardize your chances because if you, Bellamy or the show were to take home even one award, then all the more reason to keep you around. So while I hate to be the bearer of bad news, it looks like you and Bellamy will have to keep up the pretense until the end of January, beginning of February.”

 

Oddly, Clarke finds that she’s not too upset about this. She chooses not to dwell on what that might mean.

 

\--

 

**_ARK_ ** _@ARK. 9 Dec 2015  
_ _Congrats to #BellamyBlake and @ClarkeGriffin on their #SAGAwards nominations! Well deserved! #TheHundred_

_Camp Jaha Productions Retweeted:_  
**_ARK_ ** _@ARK. 10 Dec 2015  
_ _Congratulations to #BellamyBlake, @ClarkeGriffin and @TheHundred on their #GoldenGlobes nominations!_

_The Hundred Retweeted:_  
**_ARK_ ** _@ARK. 14 Dec 2015  
_ _Congrats #BellamyBlake, @ClarkeGriffin and @TheHundred on your #CriticsChoice nominations!_

January 2016 was going to be a busy month.

 

\--

 

**_E! Online_ ** _@eonline. Jan 2  
_ _#Bellarke spend Christmas holed up in a New Hampshire cabin, ring in the New Year together: eonli.ne/1MUY78_

 

“Sorry, Bell,” Octavia says, leaning across her brother to smack a resounding high-five into Clarke’s waiting palm (she’s well aware that she neither looks nor sounds the least bit apologetic), “but majority rules and it has officially spoken: _13 Going on 30_ is tonight’s entertainment.”

 

Bellamy groans, slumping into the couch, the moue on his lips mere millimetres away from becoming a full-blown pout. (Octavia suspects that the only thing keeping him from busting out his best Derek Zoolander was the fact that – how had he phrased it? Oh, yeah – he’s “a grown man and grown men look fucking ridiculous when they pout.”)

 

From the opposite end of the couch, Clarke pats his knee consolingly, as though he were a child to be placated. “The deck was seriously stacked against you. Because fact of life: _Die Hard_ has a snowball’s chance in hell – maybe even less – when ovaries and Mark Ruffalo are both in play.”

 

“Maybe I should’ve suggested _The Avengers_ instead,” Bellamy remarks dryly.

 

Clarke hums. “You jest, but I actually would’ve been conflicted. That movie has a lot going for it.”

 

“Yeah, a lot of man-candy to ogle.”

 

“Hey!” She socks him in the arm with strength that impresses Octavia and has Bellamy swearing under his breath. “I won’t apologize for being a human woman with eyes. And,” she sniffs haughtily, “I don’t ‘ _ogle_ ’ – I ‘thoroughly appreciate’.”

 

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Princess,” Bellamy smirks. Though Clarke huffs, eyes rolling skyward in ostensible exasperation, a tiny smile teases the corners of her lips.

 

Octavia silently observes their little repartee, considering and thoughtful. This was an interesting development. (Though not entirely unexpected. Really, alarm bells should’ve started ringing in her head the moment Bellamy made that passing comment about Clarke likely spending the holidays solo, should’ve blared over loudspeakers when it morphed into “Would you mind if Clarke joined us at the cabin this year?” Because you don’t open your holiday doors – so to speak – to just anybody. Especially if you’re someone who’s as prickly and crotchety as Bellamy.)

 

Eyes narrowing and lips curling delightedly at how her brother’s gaze lingers on the blonde’s mouth for a beat too long ( _Ha! I caught that, big brother._ ), Octavia hops to her feet. “Well, now that that’s been settled,” she sweeps a sly look from Bellamy to Clarke as she hands the latter the remote, “why don’t you set up while Bell and I bring the food and wine in from the kitchen.”

 

“Sure,” Clarke says gamely, taking the proffered remote.

 

Pushing through the swing door that connects the living-dining area to the kitchen (and safely out of Clarke’s earshot), Octavia rounds on Bellamy. “You’re into her,” she asserts, blunt and without preamble. “Beyond the whole fake-dating ruse,” she adds for unnecessary clarification.

 

Bellamy raises an imperious brow, arms crossing over his chest and jaw working convulsively. “No, I’m not.”

 

“Oh, _please_ ,” she snorts, throwing in an eye-roll for added emphasis. Her brother may be a capable actor, but that jaw clench was a dead giveaway. “My spidey-senses are tingling – like, I feel like I’m about to break out into hives – which can only mean that there’s a _lot_ you’re not telling me where this thing between you and Clarke is concerned.” She mirrors her brother’s unimpressed expression. “Fess up, Bell.”

 

“Your spidey-senses are inconsistent at best – they’ve been wrong more times than they’ve been right,” he dismisses brusquely, though, Octavia notes with some satisfaction, his eye contact isn’t nearly as steady as it could be. “Not exactly the most reliable source to draw from when making these kinds of wild and spurious assumptions.”

 

“Alright,” she concedes reluctantly, “so there _may_ have been a few instances where my spidey-senses were a _smidge_ misguided.” She ignores her brother’s skeptical snort, shoulders squaring and chin lifting defiantly. “But this isn’t one of them. They’re bang on this time.”

 

Bellamy scrubs a hand over his face. “Octavia, just drop it, okay? There’s nothing there. Honestly. Clarke and I – we’re just friends.”

 

“Friends who spend almost two weeks holed up together in a cabin in the middle of nowhere? Seems kind of intimate, no?”

 

He shrugs. “Not really. You’re here, aren’t you?”

 

“Only since Christmas Eve! You two were here _alone_ for four days before I even showed up!”

 

“Anya wanted us to—”

 

Now it’s Octavia’s turn to scoff. “Don’t you _dare_ try to pin this on Anya. I spoke to Lincoln; I know what was minimally required of your pretend relationship for the holidays—”

 

( _“I don’t need you Instagramming a selfie with Santa, or partying it up in Vegas or St. Barts on New Year’s Eve. What I do need, however, is for your faces to show up side by side somewhere at some point over the holidays so that the rest of the world thinks you’re ending 2015 and starting 2016 together.”_ )

 

“—and this? This so totally surpasses that minimum.” She sighs and runs a hand through her hair, visibly frustrated. “Bell, you’ve _never_ brought a girl home for the holidays. And I’ve never seen you so – I don’t know – light and mellow and _jokey_ with someone as you are with Clarke.”

 

“O, come on, she was going to be alone for the holidays. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t have done the same thing? What kind of soulless bastard would I have to be to let her spend the holidays by herself?”

 

Octavia wants to laugh. Her brother’s denial ran so deep that he truly believed he was acting out of the goodness of his heart, was convinced that he was doing Clarke a favour by inviting her to the cabin. But the opposite couldn’t be more true: the blonde was doing _him_ the favour. Bellamy _wanted_ Clarke around. He just couldn’t admit to it yet, not even to himself. Poor bastard.

 

“The Bellamy from a few months ago certainly would’ve had no qualms. Frankly, I don’t think he would’ve given two shits.”

 

Bellamy’s eyes harden and narrow. “Octavia,” he warns, voice dropping to a low growl. Looks like she may have crossed a line.

 

She raises her hands in surrender. “Alright, I get it. I’ll back off. For now.” Ignoring the even flintier glower being shot her way, she begins pulling glasses and plates from a cabinet overhead. “For what it’s worth though, I’m just calling it like I see it.” She picks through the contents of the cutlery drawer. “And I hope for your sake you’ll pull your head out of your ass before it’s too late.”

 

\--

 

**_Access Hollywood_ ** _@accesshollywood. Jan 10  
_ _We’re live-tweeting from the #GoldenGlobes’ red carpet! Stay tuned for a rundown of the best and worst gowns we’ve seen so far. #FashionPolice_

 

“God, is it crazy to hope that I don’t win tonight?” Clarke murmurs through lips that are stretched into a broad (albeit strained) smile. Restless butterflies hack away at the lining of her stomach. “Actually, no, don’t answer that. It’s for sure crazy. Probably comes in at a solid eight-point-five on the crazy-scale.”

 

Bellamy guides her further down the red carpet, his hand splayed wide on the small of her back, and turns them toward the throng of cordoned off paparazzi. He deliberately angles them away from a florid photographer hollering “BELLARKE!” at the top of his lungs. “There’s no such thing.”

 

“As what? A crazy-scale?” She wonders how much longer they’ll be at this before Anya swoops in to whisk them into the Beverly Hilton. The rims of her Louboutins were excoriating the backs of her ankles and the prolonged smiling was causing her tired, achy cheeks to spasm intermittently. “Says who?”

 

“Says me,” he responds, his tone firm and brooking no further discussion on the (inane) subject matter. “All this nonsense that’s coming out of your mouth right now? It’s your nerves talking.” He peers down at her, gaze steady and oddly reassuring. “Just relax. Breathe.” An impish gleam flickers in his dark eyes. “And stop smiling like Jim Carrey from _The Mask_.”

 

_Ass_ , Clarke thinks with more amusement than malice. With an exhale, she lets the apples of her cheeks and the corners of her mouth fall a few millimetres, dialing down the intensity (and mania) of her smile so that she bore less of a resemblance to the iconic zoot-suited, green-faced Jim Carrey character who’d starred in many of her childhood nightmares. Her face immediately stops feeling like it’s being torn in half. “Better?” she asks, her chin tilting up and inviting inspection.

 

Bellamy makes a show of scrutinizing her face before nodding in the affirmative, mirthful eyes belying the solemnity with which he says, “It’ll do.”

 

Resisting the childish urge to stick out her tongue (she settles for an exaggerated eye-roll instead – much more adult), Clarke turns back to the photographers, leaving one furtive eye trained on her escort’s profile. Even in the midst of all this hoopla and mayhem, Bellamy somehow manages to look both bored and effortlessly unruffled. In fact, she has a working theory that he could probably maintain this outward calm and composure in the midst of a Category 5 hurricane, even if internally he’s shitting his pants. It’s seriously enviable.

 

“How’re you always this unflappable?” she wonders out loud, picking up her skirt as she steps over an unlevel patch of carpet. “What’s your secret?”

 

The careless shrug he gives only adds to his aloof insouciance. “I just try not to care so much, I guess. Because in the end, it’s just an award, a few pounds of metal whose likelihood of being gold-plated is directly proportional to its purported prestige. I know my own worth; I know when I’ve turned in a good performance and also when I haven’t. I don’t need the good ones to be validated by a bunch of old white men.”

 

“So if you win tonight, you’d renounce your claim to it? Just chuck it in the garbage on your way out?”

 

Bellamy meets her gaze, a brow lifted indolently, voice dead serious. “Fuck no. If they gave it to me, I’d accept the damn thing, give the lighthearted and self-effacing speech I was forced to prepare, take it home, get it its very own lighting in its very own trophy case, and demand to be called ‘Golden Globe Winner Bellamy Blake’ from thereon out. Sure, I’d be a massive hypocrite with questionable integrity, but who’s dumb enough to look a gift horse in the mouth?”

 

\--

****

**_Golden Globe Awards_ ** _@goldenglobes. Jan 10  
_ _Congratulations to all of this year’s #GoldenGlobes winners! Find the full list here: goldenglobes.com/winners-nomine…_

 

“So you didn’t win tonight,” Bellamy says, slipping into the seat next to Clarke and handing off her mojito.

 

She smiles her thanks. “Neither did you.”

 

“And neither did the show.” A pause. “But that might’ve been for the best. Thelonious would’ve been played off the stage for sure.”

 

Clarke laughs. “I guess that officially makes us a couple of losers.”

 

“Yeah, but hey—” he dangles the tumbler in his hand “—at least we’re losers with an endless supply of alcohol. So unlike mere plebeian losers, we can drown our sorrows in a bottle. Or ten.”

 

“And now I know why these events are so well-stocked.”

 

Bellamy nods. “All the broken dreams have to go somewhere.”

 

“Before coming back to haunt us in the form of a killer hangover.” Clarke eyes the half-eaten crostino on her plate disdainfully, as if the little round of bread topped with tomato and cheese had caused her a great personal affront with its mere existence. “Why bother serving booze if there isn’t going to be any proper food to soak it all up?” She pushes the plate away and takes a sip of her drink. “It’s like they want us to wallow in self-loathing and -pity for as long as possible.”

 

“Getting a bit dark there, Princess.”

 

“Sorry, I get drangry when I drink on an empty stomach.” At Bellamy’s bemused expression, she elaborates. “Drunk-hangry.”

 

“Of course.” He drums his fingers against the tabletop, pensive. “Well,” he says after a long beat, “while we can’t really do anything about your state of inebriation--”

 

“Nor would we want to,” Clarke interjects, cradling her half-empty glass against her chest as if he might try to snatch it away.

 

“—but I think I may have a solution to your hanger problem.”

 

“Have you got a pizza or something stashed in your tux?” she asks, eyes roaming over Bellamy’s body in search of any out-of-place looking lumps.

 

“No—” Clarke sags in disappointment, eyes stilling; Bellamy’s lips twitch with amusement “—but I can do you one better. Let’s get out of here.” He cocks his head towards what she assumes is the exit. “Burgers and fries, my treat.”

 

“You want to leave? For _food_?” That was ballsy, even for him. “Can we even do that? Won’t Anya disembowel us slowly, organ-by-organ when she finds out?”

 

“We’ve been here, what, an hour and a half now?” Clarke nods. “Then I think we’ve put in enough face time. Besides, most – if not all – the people in this room are halfway to oblivion at this point, barely able to keep track of the number of drinks they’ve had much less who stays and who leaves the party.” Bellamy’s eyes stray off to his left. “Including our delightful publicist.”

 

Clarke follows his lead. And her jaw promptly drops. Because there, at the edge of a crowd gathered near the bar, was Anya, a woman notorious for her imperturbable self-possession (unless otherwise vacillating between ‘mildly annoyed’ and ‘extremely pissed off’), her head thrown back and in the middle of an inelegant, gut-busting guffaw. Clarke itches to whip out her phone – the sight of Anya laughing, carefree and uninhibited, was probably rarer than a Yeti sighting.

 

“No one will miss us,” Bellamy adds. “Or care for that matter.”

 

Clarke mulls over his proposition. While certainly tempting (she was rather hungry), it’s not necessarily wise. If she were to agree, they would have to face Anya’s wrath when (not ‘ _if_ ’ – the woman had eyes and ears everywhere, as well as an exceptionally keen nose for bullshit) she gets wind of their truant exploits. That being said – Clarke furtively studies Anya’s loose, almost boneless, frame – Bellamy’s assessment of their publicist’s level of intoxication seemed to be pretty on the nose. (Any lingering doubts are immediately put to bed when Anya spontaneously lets out an uncouth snort, a sound she would be physically incapable of producing sober.)

 

But if she stays and some unfortunate soul offers her yet another canapé – or any other foodstuff that can be eaten in two bites or less – there was a high probability that she would either: A) scream bloody murder and pass out from the exertion, or, admittedly less likely but nevertheless plausible, B) fly into a blind rage and have to be forcibly removed from the premises. Either way, the hypothetical ends the same: she gets summoned by an inconvenienced (Scenario A) or irate (Scenario B) Anya for some quality what-the- _fuck_ -were-you-thinking time.

 

“Okay, fine” Clarke finally relents, downing the rest of her drink. Nothing like liquid courage to damn all consequences to hell. “But just to be safe, we need photographic evidence, proof that we were actually here.”

 

“I don’t think that’s necessary…”

 

“I’m sorry, but have you met Anya?” She shakes her head fervently. “There’s no way I’m taking any chances where she’s concerned. She’ll be on us like a bloodhound once word gets around that we skipped out early in order to stuff ourselves with greasy fast food.” She shudders. “Better safe than sorry.”

 

“Alright,” Bellamy accedes, “we’ll get somebody to take a photo.” He climbs to his feet and extends a hand in her direction. “But first, we need to find us some Moët for the road.”

 

Clarke scoots back her chair, nodding in effusive approval. “Excellent idea.” And as if it were second nature, she latches onto Bellamy’s proffered hand, allowing him to pull her to her feet. Once she’s found balance on her precarious heels, Clarke tightens the grip she has on his hand and begins moving toward the nearest bucket of uncorked bubbly. She weaves deftly through the throng of bodies, dodging, ducking and sidestepping with focused purpose, Bellamy at her heels.

 

Once they have two bottles of Moët in their possession (“Like anyone’s going to notice,” Bellamy says when Clarke makes to protest the second bottle), they accost the first person they come across with a camera hanging from his neck. When Clarke extends the proposition, the photographer (Tony) wastes no time accepting.

 

“How about a kiss?” Tony suggests after the second photo, eyebrows waggling suggestively. Apparently the classic ‘back-to-chest, arms around waist’ prom pose (“Why the _hell_ would we do that?” Bellamy asks after Clarke pitches the idea, face scrunching with appalled bewilderment. “Because it’ll be funny and Anya’s head will explode.” He breathes a capitulating sigh. “I swear, you’ll be the death of me, Griffin.”) just wasn’t doing it for him.

 

He continues, “I’m sure all the Bellarkers—” _Bellarkers?_ Clarke mouths to herself incredulously “—would _love_ a little show of affection from the two of you.”

 

_And so would your wallet_ , Clarke thinks wryly, eyeing the poorly concealed avarice in his beady eyes, teeth clamped down on her bottom lip to keep from broadcasting the thought out loud. He was obviously trying to milk his good fortune for all its worth, which, in and of itself, Clarke doesn’t have a problem with. What really grates on her nerves was the fact that he was so utterly transparent about it all, bouncing on the balls of his feet with barely contained glee, eyes scanning the room to locate and gauge the situations of the other photographers to reassure himself that his peers/competitors were either too preoccupied or too far away to try and co-opt his golden egg opportunity. Bellamy clearly shared in her sentiments and assessment if the sudden tension in his body was any indication.

 

Twisting her neck, Clarke casts a sidelong glance at Bellamy. _Yup, definitely not impressed._ In addition to the stiff spine, there’s a clench in his jaw (a telltale sign of annoyance, anger and/or contempt – if she were to hazard a guess, she’d say that all three were present here), eyes flinty and tongue probably poised to deliver a firm (and biting) refusal. The deep breath he sucks in (not unlike the ones she’s witnessed at table reads when he’s about to launch into an insanely lengthy monologue) is her cue.

 

“Sure,” Clarke assents breezily, nipping the ensuing onslaught in the bud. Her fingers press into his forearms in a silent _stand down_. “That’s not a half-bad idea.”

 

She feels incredulous eyes bore a hole in the crown of her skull. “ _What?_ ”

 

Flashing an easy ‘sorry about him’ smile at the shiny-faced paparazzo (she tries not to flinch when he grins back smarmily), Clarke pivots in Bellamy’s embrace, bringing them chest-to-chest. Returning his glare with a pointed look of her own, she rises onto her toes. Her mouth to his ear, she whispers, “Make a scene and there’s no _way_ we’re getting out of here early. Because as drunk as she may be, a verbal castration of Tony here will _not_ go unnoticed by Anya.” Bellamy gives a disgruntled grunt that she chooses to interpret as reluctant concession.

 

“Besides,” she adds, “a shot of you and I kissing is guaranteed to get us back in Anya’s good books when she finds out we drank-and-ditched.” Falling back onto her heels, she shoots him loaded look – _So are we on the same page?_ Because although her trepidations are assuaged by the fact that his mien has gone from ‘menacing scowl’ to ‘displeased grimace’ and the ferocity in his eyes has dimmed somewhat, she needs confirmation, spoken or otherwise.

An eye-roll punctuated by a long-suffering exhale and followed up with a barely audible “You’re _definitely_ going to be the death of me” is Bellamy’s response. Translation: _Yeah, yeah, we’re on the same page._

 

Rewarding him with a beatific smile, Clarke throws her arms over his shoulders, fingers interlacing at the nape of his neck. “Good. Now, plant one on me so we can get the hell out of here – there’s a burger and fries with my name on them.”

 

“Bossy much?”

 

“I prefer ‘Woman of Action’.”

 

With an amused shake of his head, Bellamy obliges, dipping his head and pressing his lips onto hers. Like the others they’ve exchanged over the last two and a half months of pretend coupledom, this kiss is chaste (everybody’s tongues stay within their respective boundaries), nice and tame.

“C’mon, Bellamy!” Tony suddenly booms over the clamor of the party. Exasperated dread fills Clarke as the cords in Bellamy’s neck tauten under her touch. _Shut up, shut up, shut up_ , she silently pleads with the camera-toting idiot. _Don’t say another word if you know what’s good for you._ “You can do better than that!” She groans internally – it went without saying that her plea failed to transmit. “Put a little more feeling into it; make her weak at the knees!”

 

The pressure on her lips abruptly disappears as Bellamy turns to the umbrage-inducing photographer, eyes mere slits and a muscle jumping violently in his cheek. “Are you _seriously_ giving me stage direction right now?” His voice is pure venom, dangerously low and deceptively calm.

 

Tony lowers the camera from his face, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. “N-no, of course not. I was just—”

 

Bellamy cuts him off, scorn rolling off him in waves. “Because it seems to me _we_ ’re the ones doing _you_ a favour here, seeing as how you’re probably going to fetch a pretty penny for a shot of Bellarke sucking face.” He draws in a noisy breath, not finished with his tirade and gearing up for another round.

 

But before he can utter another word (and before she can fully comprehend what the _hell_ it is that she’s doing), Clarke surges upward and forward, hands reaching for his face. The light stubble on the hollows of his cheeks and jaw scrape against her palms, a not unpleasant contrast to the soft curls that brush the tips of her fingers, as she brings his mouth to hers in a rough, open kiss.

 

With one hand holding his head steady, fingers burrowing into the hair at the base of his skull, the other travels down the column of his neck and along the plane of his shoulder, the path of muscles slackening almost instantaneously under her touch. It continues its journey further south, coming to rest where his heart thumps beneath the luxe fabric of his tux.

 

Releasing a soft exhale into her mouth, a gust of warm air bitter with the remnants of his drink (scotch neat) but sweet with something she can’t quite identify, Bellamy returns the kiss. With a sigh of her own, she melts into it, lets herself enjoy the feel of his lips moving against hers. Because it’s just too damn _good_ to squander, a far cry from the pleasant but tepid mashing of lips from moments earlier. Urgent but unhurried, demanding yet giving, Bellamy teases, tests and takes. Every nerve in her body zings to life, a barrage of sensation (the lingering scent of aftershave, the warm hand pressing against the base of her spine) muddling her thoughts and igniting a desire low in her belly.

 

Being (properly and thoroughly) kissed by Bellamy Blake was at once exhausting and thrilling. And really, this doesn’t surprise Clarke in the least. Because if there was one thing she was absolutely and without a doubt certain about when it came to her co-star, it was that he was a paradox through and through.

 

The whirring and snapping of a camera filters through the fog in her head, a crude reminder to keep it classy, contained and – most importantly – short. So a beat and an additional two _clicks_ later, Clarke (very reluctantly) tears her lips away, eyes fluttering open. Her gaze lingers on Bellamy’s dazed, half-masted eyes for a brief moment before turning to their audience of one. “Was there enough ‘feeling’ in that for you?”

 

Tony lowers the camera from his face, nodding mutely.

 

“And you’ve got a shot you can use?”

 

More non-verbal confirmation.

 

“Great!” Clarke says brightly, stepping out of Bellamy’s arms to check on the bodice of her dress. A good make-out session never failed to leave her in a disarray. This one was no exception. “So glad we were able to help each other out.”

 

Satisfied that the double-sided tape was doing its job, she bends to reclaim the bottles of champagne off the floor, thrusting one into Bellamy’s chest as she straightens back up. “Now if you’ll excuse us,” she grabs his free hand, “I’ve been promised a burger and fries, and I fully intend to collect.”

 

Again leading the way, she calls over her shoulder, “Enjoy the rest of your night and make sure to get those money shots!”

 

“You know,” Bellamy drawls, sidling up to her with long, brisk strides so that they were walking side-by-side, “I just realized something.”

 

“And what’s that?” Clarke asks perfunctorily, narrowly dodging a floating glass of wine.

 

“You always seem to be the one initiating the kiss and I’m left to play catch up.”

 

“Not true,” she demurs. “ _You_ kissed _me_ when Tony first suggested that we kiss – you know, before he so politely asked us to sex it up.”

 

“Yeah, but at _your_ behest. If you’ll recall, I was fully prepared to eviscerate him with his own camera before you intervened.”

 

Clarke snorts. “Well, if it matters that much to you, I’ll let you take point next time.”

 

Bellamy hums, his fingers entwining with hers. Clarke nearly trips over her own feet in surprise. “I’m going to hold you to that.” It sounds suspiciously like a promise.

 

\--

 

**_Us Weekly_ ** _@usweekly. Jan 11_

_Spotted: Bellamy Blake and Clarke Griffin (#Bellarke) love it up inside the @HBO #GoldenGlobes after-party before sneaking out to hit up @InNOutBurger for a late-night meal of burgers, fries and #BYOB champagne: usm.ag/9Au8Uy7_

 

\--

 

The next time they kiss – at his initiation, not hers – there isn’t a single camera around to capture the moment. They prefer it that way.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I did writing it! Be sure to drop a review!


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